


Torridity

by oceansinmychest



Series: Torridity [2]
Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F, One Shot, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Season/Series 02, Smut, Vibrators
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-16 16:14:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13639782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: (adj.) intensely hot; scorching, burning; passionate, ardent





	Torridity

> “We sometimes remember that heat is the subject of our desire and abandon it. But eventually our own heat overwhelms us.”
> 
> _The Garment In Which No One Had Slept_ \- Pam Rehm

How the hell did they end up here?

Vera reflects with her cheeks flushed while sprawled across her overstuffed mattress. Contradictory to this, a blush fans below the collar. There's either too much blood flow or too little.

In her room, the gaudy wallpaper has started to peel. A streak of self-consciousness ripples through her. She shouldn't have invited her superior – her boss – to her home, to her room, to her _bed_. The mouse draws her coltish legs up, her knees close to her chest. Fear presents her from moving, all too aware of the dark eyes upon her.

Over the magnified silence, she hears a clock tick. Vera projects a rare virtue and innocence lost to this gilded age. Her hair streams down like Mary Magdalene. Her face is fit for a retablo.

She’s a vision sprawled across this bed.

Outright, Joan refrains from devouring her.

On the arm chair opposite to the bed, the Governor admires her Deputy's plain, diminutive features. A part of Joan yearns to trap her. To fold her bird-like bones and trap her soul into a reliquary. That, too, can be holy.

Joan Ferguson has no time for religion. Faith is cheap talk. Yet, she remembers her mother’s spun tales of folklore. Koschei the Deathless graces this room with its faded, floral wallpaper. That, too, will change.

A few glasses of wine turn into a surefire shot of liquid courage. In a state of perpetual terror, Vera teeters between regret and need. Oh, what a precious fool she is.

Memories of her nights with Fletch leave behind a terrible stain. Nervously, her hands drag down her face. She chews on her bottom lip, recalling her inability to climax.

“I’ve never, um... He never made me...”

The words don’t come out. Pathetically, she falters. Tugs at the hem of her unsavory chemise.

At first, the Governor maintains her distance. She sits on the arm chair. Claims it like a throne. Long, graceful legs cross over one another. Her hands settle in her lap. She resembles a cool, marble statue, impervious to the rain. To age. To fallacy. 

Joan fluctuates between yearning to preserve that innocent - to protect - and to squander it: to corrupt. She tilts her head, lips pursed.

Even now, the pathetic Mr. Fletch leaves behind a bitter taste.

“Enough, Vera.” She flicks her wrist, hand out like a stop sign. “We'll take this slow, hm? Show me how you touch yourself.”

The Governor expects the stereotypical self-romanticism: a few, lingering touches beneath the chemise Vera wears and if she feels daring, maybe – just maybe – her fingers will creep underneath the waistband of her panties. The predictable does not occur. Shyly, she procures a small, purple bullet from her drawer.

Faint surprise combats with the stoic's rose. Caught off-guard, Joan raises a scrupulous brow. _My, my._ Her little mouse is full of surprises.

Folding her hands upon her lap, she settles in the chair. Her open-collared nightgown exposes her taut throat. Joan studies her neck, the well-defined muscle and sinew.

These haphazard midnight decisions deepen their bond.

“Go on,” Joan goads her.

Accustomed to hiding beneath the sheets, this exposure feels new in a deliciously frightening sense. A lamb lays herself down for the slaughter. She spreads her legs, allowing for the cream-colored negligee to rise higher and expose a tantalizing glimpse of her upper thigh.

“Ah, ah. Off they come.”

In admonishment, Miss Ferguson wags her finger. She affords a knowing glance whilst gesturing to the chignon. Hesitation accompanies her reserved nature. After the skip of her butterfly heartbeat, Vera slips off her nightgown. Silken panties accentuate the sharpness of her hipbone and the delicateness of her sex.

Vera experiences old habits. She plays the role of a shy, bashful maiden. An arm drapes across her bare breasts. Twisting her fingers, she turns on the vibrator. It hums and skips to life.

Mindful of the devilish presence in the room, Vera chooses to occupy herself with the task at hand. The heel of her palm dances down her belly until she teases herself through thin silk. Quietly, she whimpers. A lamb gets off to a wolf's voyeuristic streak.

Up and down, round and round, she teases herself. Frustrated by the self-imposed barrier, Vera rips off her panties, only to toss them onto the floor. There, they become a lifeless puddle. At the disruption (and mess), Joan twitches her lips.

Another surprise follows.

With ease, the vibrator sinks inside. Sinewy legs part. Hips jerk up and down. The curls between her legs mat with sweat and arousal. She withdraws the toy to nudge it against her clit.

“O-oh,” she gasps, so wonderfully wet from her enthusiastic endeavor. “ _Joan_ -” she breathes out her name, her voice raising in pitch.

“That’s it; fuck yourself.”

A familiar heat floods her belly and takes over her body. Consider it a case of vacant possession. Sweat collects along her brow. Soon enough, her body's aglow. Faster, she thrusts, her moans growing louder as time slithers by.

Desire darkens her eyes. Boudicca has yet to lead her revolt. The Devil stiffens within her chair, her breath caught in her throat. As if this is an opera – a gospel – Joan continues to play the starring role of spectator.

“You... You like to watch.” Vera manages breathlessly.

Onto her elbows, she props herself, but _oh_! She's so damn close.

“Yes,” Joan responds without skipping a beat, her voice thickened by lust. “I do.”

Her imagination runs wild. She impales herself with the toy before retracting, nudging the vibrator against her clit. She wants Joan inside her – all over her, consuming her like wild fire, from the inside out.

“Do you want me to come closer?”

A nod.

Vera sinks her teeth into her lip while mechanically bucking her hips. There's a rustle of fabric as the Governor rises from her throne. This time, she lays on the right side of the bed where she observes her little Vera’s frantic wrist disappearing between sturdy thighs.

“A-ah... Please, Joan. I want-”

_I want you to fuck me. I want you inside. I need it._

Nothing else comes out.

Meanwhile, she lounges like an old queen from antiquity – a Medea conquering the sheets. Joan props herself onto her elbow, hand cradling the palm of her cheek.

Temptation compels her to strike. While savoring Vera's alluring cries, she flicks her thumb over a hardened bud. A manicured nail drags across her nipple which springs from the gesture. Upon eliciting a gasp from her Deputy, she offers a mirthless chuckle.

“You're close,” Joan announces with a ghostly Cheshire grin. For nights to come, this will haunt Vera. “Let go for me.”

With a mewl, she's seeing stars. Vera pushes against the vibrator, hot and needy. Her muscles contract, her cunt an eager mess. She throbs, throbs, throbs. From the release, her body shudders. Unraveling, she falls slack on the bed. In her naivety, she doesn't notice that the Devil's begun to make her move. The serpent in the garden of Eden slithers down. Situates herself in between parted legs.

Joan casts aside Vera's dexterous hands that have finally gone still. The vibrator falls silent. She savors the sight of that swollen cunt and how it drips wet for her. The broad of her tongue sweeps along her slit. She tastes her saltiness, her sweetness, all of her.

See?

You can even make the Devil pray.

A feral growl escapes the patron saint of her demise. Strong hands seize hold of Vera's thighs. She pulls her closer to that eager, reverent mouth. Fervent worship follows. A skilled tongue sinks in deep to torment her silken folds.  
“I'm- I'm...”

Unable to muster a coherent sentence, Vera paws at her chest – at Joan's greying tresses. Impatiently, she pulls at the well-kept ponytail. Gasping aloud, she arches her back and lures the Devil's tongue deeper into the fraying remnants of innocence.

Without warning, she comes undone. Shuddering, Vera falls lax. Perturbed, Joan sinks her nails into the younger woman's thigh. She scolds with a light smack – one not designed to hurt though it dictates a pleasurable buzz.

Run ragged, a paper doll collapses. The ticking on the clock resumes its course. Faded, sea-blue eyes focus on the cracks that adorn the ceiling. Naked and warm, Vera basks in the afterglow. It gives her an extra dose of courage.

“I want to see you.”

Quietly, the lark chirps.

An inkling of hesitation fuels this automaton called Joan. Button by button, she removes her scarlet blouse. Then, her trousers. Each piece is folded with precision. Dressed in red, Mephistopheles remains in lingerie that's darker than her tar black soul.

Soon, the vestiges of her garment follow. Once nude, a sturdy arm reaches for the vibrator. Joan teases herself. Half-lidded eyes regard Vera’s fascinated expression. This is neither a slumber party nor for the faint of heart. Laying beside her superior, Vera drinks in the scene.

Mesmerized, doe’s eyes survey Joan’s elongated form. Vera admires the way she bucks and thrusts, pressing the vibrator against her clit. The Governor is a stoic to a fault, silent in her regime until pleasure spreads like the inferno. Her movements are downright tactile. Her moans become guttural, her snarls near beastly.

Helpless beneath the Gorgon’s half-lidded stare, Vera watches in eager anticipation. Her trembling hand roves over Joan’s quivering belly, sinking lower to tantalizingly ghost over the greying nest of curls.

“No,” Joan cuts her off. “ _Watch_.”

With executive action delivered, she continues to observe. Curiosity gets the better of Vera. Again, she strikes. She touches. Her small, slender hand cups Joan’s pendulous breast. This time, Joan allows it.

But she wants to taste her. She has no drive to be disciplined. Intrigue lures her in. Vera dips her tongue over a dusky nipple, coaxing it to hardness, her enthusiasm matching the purposeful hum of the vibrator.

Slender fingers follow Joan's pulse point. Absent-mindedly, she traces the inside of her wrist, all too mesmerized by the persistent flick. Judging by the way her nostrils flare and her hoarse grunts, she can tell that the Governor nears the point of no return.

“Let me taste you,” Vera pleads.

This is sworn libation, her hymn and call to a higher power that doesn't exist.

It sets her over the edge. Stiffening, the Governor reaches the bitter end. Her wrist falls. Numbly, on its own, the vibrator whirs. Mouth agape, visions of Heaven fail her. Instead, she catches a glimpse of her Deputy looming over her, stealing a sacred kiss.

And _oh_ , how she tastes of perdition.

Salacious need compels her to pull Vera closer: to consume through a fated kiss.


End file.
